


Ready for anything

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Gen, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: vanity, blueNapoleon has a humiliating accident





	Ready for anything

One of the first things UNCLE agents had to learn was always to be ready for anything – to go and to do whatever they were told – because Mr Waverly (not to mention the Accounts department) looked askance at expense claims that included such basics as toothpaste and brush, razors and shaving cream, underwear and new shirts (or blouses). Napoleon Solo, who was invariably ready for anything, nevertheless put in frequent, usually perfectly legitimate, claims for new (and expensive) suits and shoes, which caused much heart-searching in the organisation. His frugal partner’s claims tended to be so much more modest that it generally balanced out and little was therefore said by Accounts – though Mr Waverly was often forthright on the subject.

The frugal Kuryakin kept what he called (only to himself) his KGB bag, permanently packed and ready beside his door, just like any sensible citizen of the Soviet Union who had reason to fear a middle-of-the-night KGB raid. He kept another at the office (which he distinguished from the other as his Lubyanka bag).

The less frugal Solo also kept such bags, of course, though being less paranoid, he merely thought of them as one of the tools of the trade. They were at least half as big again as his partner’s.

“What on earth do you keep in this bag – a vanity case lined with lead?” Illya had said once, carrying it to the helicopter along with his own while Napoleon brought other necessities for the mission.

“I keep a toiletries bag in there, of course,” said Napoleon with dignity.

“A year’s supply of soap and cologne?”

“No, but possibly a little more than you pack; not that that would be difficult.”

“Your cologne tells the world where you are. I don’t advertise where I am.”

“In South America, people could smell you for miles...Filthy.”

“It didn’t say who I was, let alone attract anyone.”

“Don’t be too sure. People only have to sniff and they’d be bound to say ‘that must be Kuryakin. No-one else gets to smell like that’.”

“That’s because you are unbelievably and unnecessarily fastidious, my friend. You ought to take your turn occasionally.”

“No need when you’re around,” was Napoleon’s parting shot as they climbed into the helicopter, ending a frequent argument.

<><><> 

Hearing a crack like the sound of a shot, Illya came running.

“You might help me out of this, my friend,” Napoleon said coolly, looking up. When he saw what had happened, Illya doubled up, laughing too much to even offer a hand.

“I don’t think even I have ever smelled like you do now,” he gasped. “Lucky for you there are hardly any villagers left or you’d have been up to your neck in it.”

“Lucky! The seat broke! And when I get out, I’m going to roll on you like a dog.”

“You certainly aren’t. You’re going to the stream and you’re going to sit in it till it’s all washed off.”

“What about the wretches downstream?”

“They drink from a well.” Illya now snorted his mirth into his handkerchief.

“Okay, you’ve had your laugh, now help me out.” Napoleon reached up a hand; Illya took it with marked reluctance and pulled. With a horrible sucking sound Napoleon came free and clambered out.

“Oh God, Napoleon!” Illya stepped back, clutching the handkerchief to his nose, “just get in the stream, quick.” He followed at a distance as Napoleon staggered the fifty yards to the bank and slid down into the water.

“You’d better strip off,” said Illya looking at the water. “I’ll bring some clean clothes.”

“No, don’t. Bring just the underpants and shirt I was wearing yesterday.”

Glad to get away from the stench, Illya retreated to the tent and rummaged in the bag of laundry. Napoleon was sitting naked in the stream when he returned, and turning blue with cold. He had weighted his clothes with stones under the water in the hope that they might be retrievable as wearable garments later. He’d been quite attached to some of them.

“Soldiers always say that boots benefit from this kind of thing. It softens the leather,” said Illya helping him out and rubbing him down with a towel.

“So, you’re telling me it’s good for the complexion?” Napoleon growled.

“I guess it’s not the best mudpack to try.”

<><> 

Illya heated water over a fire for Napoleon to wash in – not allowing him near any utensils till he was clean and disinfected, nor allowing him into the tent until some of the smell had worn off. He would have to run about to get warm, and the clothes would have to stay outside, he told him. “And don’t put any cologne on either!”

“Why not?”

“You don’t put perfume on a pig – and that’s what you smell like.”

“You wound me, Illya.”

Illya laughed again. “What are you going to put on your expenses claim to justify a whole outfit?”

Napoleon looked at him. “You wouldn’t tell…?”

“What’s it worth for me to keep quiet… Filthy?”

Napoleon glared at him. “I suppose you couldn’t say it had happened to you?”

“No. You’ll have to say it was an ill wind that blew everything into the cess pit.”

“No-one would believe that. Least of all Waverly,” Napoleon moaned.

“Tell him you left your bag behind, then.”

“I’d never live that down, either. Would you consider dinner at the Waldorf?”

They were talking over mugs of tea brewed with the rest of the hot water; now hearing strange sounds behind them, they looked round.

Attracted by the smell perhaps, a herd of goats had arrived and were giving Napoleon’s clothes, which had been draped over the guy ropes of the tent, their full attention.

“Do you think he’d believe that they’d been eaten by the local fauna?”

“Why not? Goats notoriously lack discrimination,” said Illya.

“Those are my pants you’re talking about. I’d say they were showing very refined judgment.”

“But hardly good taste.”

“Bit like you, really… Ah, sorry, the Waldorf it is.”

<><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> This happened to a friend on an environmental field trip in China. Despite potential disease from splinter wounds he survived mostly unharmed and, amazingly, his clothes were washed for him by a local woman.


End file.
